Life of Pitsbytarkatony©
Note: the first of the 3 chapters was posted some time ago. Two additional chapters have been added to make up this complete 3 chapter novella.
"I am skinny, no tits, none, shy, no self-confidence/esteem, never really had a date, work in a meaningless job in large corp, unhappy, no prospects, no hobbies, sexually ignorant, maybe even sexless."
Peachpit356 had sent me an email a few weeks ago questioning a character in a story I had written for Literotica. I like feedback, it's the only reason I post my stories: to find out what in my story works for readers and what doesn't. I want to become a better writer.
Alas, I don't get much meaningful feedback. Usually readers comment that my stuff either sucks or is good, both equally unhelpful when what I really want to know is why something works or doesn't work.
And that's what I had written back to Peachpit356: don't tell me you didn't like my character, tell me why you didn't like him, why you didn't find him credible. And she did: 'a lonely and lost guy would never approach a stranger,' she had written, and she added that she ought to know because she 'is a female version of my character.'
A few days later she sent me a much long email, taking the time to give me a really thorough critique of my story. Clearly, Peachpit356 is intelligent, thoughtful, literate and observant — all her comments were helpful. And she was very complimentary. She said she liked my stuff because my storylines were always about sexual discovery and character growth. She said my stories helped her learn a little about herself, but mostly, my stories offered her hope that her life could be transformed, just like the lives of my characters were transformed.
There was a sadness in her writing that affected me and I wrote her back, trying to be positive, optimistic. That's when I got the return message sited above: "I am skinny, no tits, none, shy, no self-confidence/esteem, never really had a date, work in a meaningless job in large corp, unhappy, no prospects, no hobbies, sexually ignorant, maybe even sexless."
"But you go to Literotica," I wrote back. "I don't know about the rest of your description but you couldn't be sexless: we all go to Literotica to be sexually stimulated."
"Not me," she responded. "I go to learn; to find out about what I'm missing."
"So you're never stimulated by the stories? You don't find my stories erotic?"
It took her two days to write back, it was as if she needed time to organize her thoughts. "My imagination isn't strong enough to put myself in your characters' arms, and anyway, I wouldn't know what to do if I ever got there."
I wrote back immediately, wondering if she was, indeed, sexually dead. "Would you like to know what to do?"
I had her answer within a minute. "Some things are beyond my imagination."
I was going to argue with her, challenge her, encourage her, but I could feel the hopelessness in all her emails and I knew my words would sound empty, banal so I didn't write her back, not immediately, instead I mulled over an idea I had been toying with since early on in our email exchange.
Why not write a story about her? But more than that, why not get her to actively participate in the story, a story about my favourite subject, sexual awakening. In the story she would play herself and would pick her own love interest, the kind of man who appealed to her. I would use my imagination together with her own ideas to write a story that would prove to her that she is as sexual as the rest of us, at least in the world of fantasy. And that's what I wrote.
"ARE YOU NUTS?"
I wrote back immediately. "Look Peachpit356, you go to Literotica, I think you want to be sexually awakened but you can't quite seem to pull that off yourself: why don't I put you in one of my stories! Together, we can create a realistic fiction based specifically on you, your personality, your likes and dislikes — and we can try to make you come alive? Think about it, Pits! I'd be doing most of the work, you would just be feeding me your ideas. It could work! But if the story is going to help you with a sexual awakening it obviously must be based on you and your ideas. What have you got to lose? You'd be entirely anonymous and with a little collaboration you might discover something about yourself.
"I can hear you asking, Pits: 'What's in it for you?' Well, I've never collaborated with anyone before; I've always been forced to speculated about what's running through a woman's mind. This would be a great chance for me to learn, first hand, how a woman thinks, how she reacts to specific situations. I'd love to try this. But really, if it's going to have any real value to you, you must be the main character in the story and it must be YOU, not someone you wish you were, and I mean you, with your clothes off, with your warts and blemishes showing, psychological as well as physical. And you have to give me a detailed outline of the man in the story, too, and he also must be real, not some Hollywood cut-out; he has to be as flawed as you but someone you could realistically care for."
"Why do you call me Pits?"
"Because Peachpit356 is a little too cryptic and Peaches is a little too familiar. Do you want me to stop?"
It took her two days to respond to my proposal. "I've put a lot of thought into your idea. You're right, what have I got to lose? And you're right, I could actually gain something. I'll do it but ONLY on two condition: 1. That we only post the story if I agree to, otherwise we delete it. 2. YOU are the man in the story, YOU will be as naked on the page as I am — the real you, not some hollywood version of you; you with 'all your warts and blemishes, psychological as well as physical.'"
I quickly wrote back because clearly she didn't understand me. "I said you have to care about the guy, Pits, otherwise, the story won't have any real meaning to you. Pick some guy you could realistically see yourself with, a kind of idealized guy."
She responded immediately. "I've read every one of your stories, 18 of the them, all of them many times. I feel I know you. To me, you are sensitive, compassionate and caring. This might sound really pathetic, Bucko329, but it's honest: if I'm going to have a sexual awakening, I want it to be with someone like you, and because you're the only one like you I know, I choose you."
I wrote back in protest, "But you don't really know me. Those are just stories."
"I know how your mind works, Bucko. You are compassionate, interested and I think even loving. You're right, I don't know you, don't have a clue what you look like and your empty Literotica bio is no help. But you're the kind of guy I would want. So, you're all I've got, Bucko. It's you or nothing."
Her response startled me, it was the furthest thing from my mind. Did I want to write about myself? I've never even considered it, quite the contrary, I've hidden behind phony names and phony identities ever since I first entered the cyberworld. Did I want to come out? It was scary. But I knew I didn't want to continue existing in my fictional world, either; I was becoming lost; it was becoming increasingly difficult to know who I am. I log-on at work like a drone; I shop on-line as a number; I write on Literotica with a pseudonym; I pass-word myself into any number of sites; I pay for everything with a plasticized number. I am anonymous. I have no identity. Maybe joining Pits in a fictional/factual story could help me take back my identity, my own reality. By writing a story of fiction maybe I could reacquire the fact of my life. I laughed when I thought about it. Writing about myself would be ridiculous, I'm the most uninteresting person I know. — but it might be liberating. When I started to think seriously about it I realized that if I included myself in the fiction, I might have as much to gain from the story as Pits did, maybe more. "I'm in," I wrote, with more enthusiasm than I felt.
"Great," she responded immediately, "but one more thing before I agree. Honesty. If this story is to be about me coming out of my sexual cocoon it will only help me if I am totally honest about myself and I can only be totally honest about myself IF I think you're being totally honest about yourself. Do you understand? This might mean you have to admit you have a wife and eight kids, I know that, but honesty has to be a part of both sides of the story or it won't work for me. Understand? Deal? And oh, BTW, I have a really well developed bull-shit detector. Lie to me and I'll know it."
Honesty about herself had been my point from the beginning. I was less enamored with the idea of honesty about myself, but she was right. "You're not going to like everything you find out about me."
"OK," I wrote. "Deal."
"Deal!" She wrote back, "So how do we begin?"
"I've thought about that. Basically, we use all the emails we've already written as the set-up to the story. The storyline is that you like my stories, I like your critiques, we connect, we both see something in each other, we're both a little desperate, I suggest you come and visit me — it will be one of those internet-inspired romances. The real story will begin, essentially, when you step off the plane or bus. What do you think?"
"Why don't you come and visit me?"
"We're supposed to be living a fiction as close to the truth as possible, right? I can't get away, right now; I have to work — long hours, often weekends."
"But you're asking me to get on a bus to visit a man I've never met. You're asking me to show a hell of a lot more nerve than I've got."
"Look Pits, you're lonely, sexless, lacking in self-esteem — all the things you've already pointed out. You come to the conclusion that you have nothing to lose so why not go and visit a man you think of as caring and loving."
"Damned if I know! But a warning, Pits: you seemed to be a little sold on my soul. You'll have a lot harder time with how my soul is packaged. I'm a bit of a geek-type: think Bill Gates then strip him of his sex appeal."
"I'm not ugly, or anything. I'm just not very visible: I'm a John, single, I write computer code all day, talk code with other geeks, then I go home and write stories about people with passions."
"Maybe you have an ulterior motive for writing my story. Sounds like you need a sexual identity about as badly as I do."
"It's true. I recently came to that very conclusion."
"Don't take this personally, John, but how much fire can we get from rubbing two limp sticks together?"
"Let's find out. Still, want to try? We don't have to publish the story, that will be a joint decision. If you want to pursue this, I suggest we move from emails to chat."
"Nothing ventured ... where do you want to meet?"
I tell her and in a few minutes I ask, "Are you there?
"Ya, I'm getting out of a bus at the bus station in your city."
"What are you wearing, Pits?"
"What city are you in?"
"Really? I'm Portland. So I guess if I'm getting out of a bus in Seattle I should be wearing a yellow slicker and rubber boots ..."
"Very funny. Let's make it's summer, Pits, we have beautiful summers here. It's hot and muggy and you don't have a whole lot on."
"I'm in shorts and a tank top ..."
"Got to wear the bra."
"Why? You haven't any breasts?"
"No, but I have inches of nipple and that can be really embarrassing. What happens if when I see you, I like you. The whole fucking bus station will know, hell, the people in the Space Needle will know."
"Stuff the bra," I say. "It's the new you."
"It's already stuffed."
"I mean get rid of it."
"I know what you meant but I can't, I've got to be true to my persona, right? The bra stays, I'll show a little navel. Is that you with the flowers?"
"No flowers, this isn't a true romance; you're coming sort of ... in a way, to talk to me about my stories."
"Ya. Right. I'm coming tarted up and you're ...
"Waiting for you with flowers, a bunch of ... flowers."
"You don't know a hydrangea from a delphinium do you?"
"Not at the moment because I'm a little speechless, you're a lot cuter than you led me to believe."
"I'm scare shitless, John. I think it's you with the flowers and you look OK but what the fuck am I doing in Seattle with a few pairs of underwear and a toothbrush in my backpack?"
"Hi Amy, I'm John."
"Amy? Why Amy?"
"Don't know your real name. Change it if you don't like it."
"Hi John. I'm nervous."
"I like Amy better. Tsk. I give you the flowers, take your backpack and we walk down the street a half block to the parking lot. I'm making the usual awkward conversation: good trip? Nice weather! Hasn't rained in a week. Hope you enjoy your stay. You don't want dinner so we stop for a drink, get to my apartment by 10:30 PM, I put your backpack on the bed in the spare bedroom and point out the towels. So what do you do?"
"I don't know, I've never been alone in a guy's apartment. Maybe I pray?"
"This is Literotica.com we're writing for, Pits."
"I came to Seattle because I thought you are compassionate and caring. I can now add gentlemanly and thoughtful: there are flowers in my bedroom and scented soaps on the towel. Nice touch, John. When I wash my face I smile. I feel a little daring, a little naughty. For the first time in my life I'm going to be sleeping in the same home as a guy and I'm surprised that it's making me a little horny. I take off my tank top and my bra and those nipple I've told you about are standing out from my flat chest so stiff they hurt. I trust you. I feel comfortable with you. I want to send you a message. I put the tank top on and throw the bra on my bed before I join you in the living room."
"Would you do that, Pits? You said it wasn't in your persona."
"Nor is being in the apartment with a guy I don't know, but I am and I feel safe, John and you make me feel a little sexy, I can't explain why, nothing you said, you just sort of seem to care about me. As I said, I want to send you a message — I wouldn't have a clue how to do that with words. The bra thing is all I can think of and anyway, they don't always stand out and probably aren't very much now because I'm a little nervous and self-conscious."
"No, they're standing out, Pits, believe me I'm noticing, but I don't pick up that you've tossed the bra. I hand you a glass of wine. You sit on the couch and I sit in a chair across from you. There's a long silence ...
"I can see you're really nervous, John, really uncomfortable, so I ask you the one question that's been on my mind since the moment I met you: where do you get the ideas for your stories?
"I wait a moment, as if processing the question, then I answer with a snicker: experience."
We explode with laugher at the same time, "With your mother?"
"And my sister, my aunt, the wife of the CEO ..."
"... a lesbian stevedore, your best friend's mother and sister?"
We laugh for a few minutes. Clearly the notion of me writing from experience is beyond ridiculous. I try to explain, "I don't know where my ideas come from, I just start and the story comes out. Maybe they come from another life. Maybe I sleep walk."
"You have a great laugh, John, I really like your laugh."
"I've needed it. Would you like some more wine?"
"With all the laughing I'm obviously tipsy now but I want you to know that I wasn't laughing AT you, John."
"Ya, Pits, you were and so was I. I look like the last person on earth to write torrid erotica. As I said I sort of look like Gates, slight, blond, glasses — the pocket protector type. I write my stories as therapy, a vicarious thrill. It's harmless and it's fun."
"Well, as I've said, you write well and with compassion. So we're sitting here, the geek and the twig, what happens next?"
"My stories develop slowly, as you know. I think you'd get up, come over and kiss me on the cheek and say something like, I've had a wonderful night, John and I'm already looking forward to tomorrow."
"That's good, I'd do that. And it's a good time to break. I need to think. See you tomorrow?"
"See ya, Pits."
"You didn't tell me how much fun this can be. God, this story is consuming, isn't it. I thought about it all night, all day. What will I do when I leave you and go to bed? What do I want you to do? If something happens, how will I react; how will you react? And what should happen? It's all I've thought about."
"Well, the sex, ya, but there's something a whole lot bigger: I'm in an apartment, alone with a guy who I think I like. This is new to me, John, my emotions are getting a bit frayed."
"Me, too, for the same reasons. I like you, I like your personality, I like your body, I like that you seem to want to be with me, I like that a lot."
"It's hot, isn't it? What are you feeling?"
"After you kissed me on the cheek and went to bed, all I could think of is that there's a really attractive woman lying in the room next door. That's a first for me. Not surprisingly, I have what is generally referred to as a raging hard-on."
"Did you masturbate?"
"No, well, not at first. I did take it in my hand but I felt like a cheater, I felt really dishonest. I had invited you into my home and, well, it just didn't seem right to flog, it sort of felt like I was in some way abusing you. But I didn't let my cock go, either. I thought about our story a little more and I saw us getting closer and closer together, emotionally and physically, like we really understood each other, liked we wanted, you know, to be together. The moment I imagined you leaning into me, well, it seemed OK then. I only needed a stroke."
"Whoa, that's sweet, John, I really like that. I didn't masturbate. I slept in my panties. I didn't at first, I usually don't but without them, nude, I felt way too exposed in your house so I put them on. But I played with myself a little and I definitely would have masturbated if I was at home. Definitely, and I almost never do. But I couldn't there, a room away from you, that would have been way to weird for me. But I brushed my fingers up and down my panties for awhile thinking about you. I liked that you're a gentleman, John, I like that you seem to respect me, be interest in me. And I like that I was getting really, really wet thinking about you. That hasn't really ever happened before. I like this, John. Like, I really, really like this."
"Weren't you frustrated? I mean, could you get to sleep? The moment I got off I rolled over and blissfully drifted off."
"I was really into the story, I didn't want to sleep, I wanted to find out what was going to happen to me."
"I tried a bunch of different story lines. I knocked on your door, my nipples were like tent pegs and my panties were wet and bunched in my bum — but I could never do that so I crept back to my room and pulled the covers over my head. Then I tried the panty thing, I washed them and hung them in the bathroom to send you a signal, but I'd never do that, either, so I gave up on that, too. I tried something else. I brought a really light blouse with me and I had that on the next morning without my bra, but I couldn't get that to work either. Nothing seemed to work for me, probably for two reasons: I've already told you I have a lousy imagination but the biggest reason is that I can't be the aggressor, John, I'm just not like that."
"You went bra-less the night before."
"Ya, that really shocked me, but I did it, and I would have done it, too. I'm kind of proud of that."
"So you're waiting for me to make the first move?"
"Afraid so, sorry."
"So am I."
"In a retarded kind of way. I get up pretty early the next morning and make coffee. I'd bought some croissants. I'm nervous as hell. But it's different now. Before I was apprehensive and socially awkward but you've made me feel really comfortable. I like being with you, Pits, I really like being with you and that has changed everything. I've got a hard-on when I'm making the coffee and the fucking thing won't go away. And I don't really want it to, I want to feel the way I do, it's the first time in my life I've felt like this, not horny, I've felt like that a lot, but horny for someone in particular, horny for you, Pits."